


filled by teeth and white lightning

by Mira_Jade



Category: Thor (2011)
Genre: Clothing Shenanigans, Community: norsekink, Established Relationship, F/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-15
Updated: 2011-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-26 02:27:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/277639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mira_Jade/pseuds/Mira_Jade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whilst on Midgard, Loki picked up a trick or two, as Sif comes to learn . . .</p>
            </blockquote>





	filled by teeth and white lightning

**Author's Note:**

> Done for this prompt at norsekink: http://norsekink.livejournal.com/6119.html?thread=11375335#t11375335
> 
> And now I think that I will crawl off to my corner in shame . . .

And, Sif could not help but think, this was how one tied a silver tongue in knots.

There had been an urgency to her hands when she had pulled him away from the others, something that he had felt in her grip, echoed from the fierce slash of her eyes. How she had kissed him in full view of the team, and gotten nothing more than whoops and whistles in return as she drew the Trickster away with War's insistence – reveling, as always, her chance to surprise and subdue her normally cool and composed lover.

At any rate, her passion never took long to spark his own, and when she finally pulled him through the threshold of his quarters he in turn pushed her almost violently against the door before it truly had time to close. She reveled in his uncustomary loss of control as the back of her shoulders struck the wood hard, catching the back of her shirt – and his arm as well – as it closed.

“Damn,” Loki muttered under his breath at the unexpected sensation. His lips were lost with the word, and so she trailed her own mouth down, nipping at the sharp angle of his jaw before moving her mouth over his throat, saying, “And to think I have always revered you for your eloquence.”

She felt his blood beating hot against her lips. She scraped her teeth over the tremor of his voice, wondering how cross he would be if she were to bear down. Would he hide the mark later? she wondered, the idea a bewitching thing at her mind.

“Would you rather me be speaking right now, my lady?” he asked, his voice a low and husky cadence that was hers, and hers alone. She closed her eyes at the sound of it, letting the timbers of his tone cascade over her as she curled her hands at the base of his neck. His own hands were tracing teasing patterns over her shirt, high on her back, close enough to the fall of her hair to tangle.

“I have always found more appealing tasks for you to apply your tongue to,” said she, eyes a challenge as her fingers tightened, bearing down upon the skin of his neck. Her nails would leave little crescent marks when they were drawn away.

And he always responded so well to calls to arms, she reflected somewhat triumphantly as he leaned forward to kiss her, acquiescing to his lady's demands. Even these long years later, his mouth was hot and branding; coals under his skin as they struck her own. How she did so wish to swallow the heat of him, drawn by the marrow of his bones as she always was . . .

His hands moved, and she pressed closer to him, awareness lightening her mind like a torch. Why she had accosted him so in the first place . . .

While the progress of Midgard throughout the ages could be distasteful at times, there were some things about man's growth which she approved of – _jeans_ , for one. Jeans were glorious. And it was jeans which she now wore, slim and dark over the tall curve of her – how she had noticed his eyes following the sway of her, when she had first entered the room. She wore a loose cotton shirt that Jane had called a camisole under a plaid shirt with long sleeves. The checkering of red and grey and black was something she had instantly approved of, and she liked the easy way his hands slipped under the fabric when the buttons were undone.

As if reading her thoughts, his hands tugged, and she acquiesced, moving to slip her long arms out of the sleeves, aiding him. Goosebumps appeared where his teasing fingers found her skin as he drew the second layer of fabric away from her. She watched him carefully then, watched him as his brows raised and his head tilted curiously as he saw what else she found to appreciate of Midgard's tastes.

A simple trip out with Jane and Darcy earlier in the day had revealed many an intriguing thing to Sif, and one such thing was the work of brilliance that was a _brassiere_ – a bra, as Darcy more crudely called the garment. While trying dresses on at the large market called a _mall_ , the two mortal women had noticed the tight bindings that Sif wore under her armor – under all of her clothing, really. A SHIELD credit card had been in Darcy's hand before Sif could even properly explain her naïvete to the finer points of female dress, and they had properly 'decked her out' as was only 'right and proper'. Again, Darcy's words, rather than her own.

And really, she had liked the way this one had tied in the front, the elegant lacing reminding her more of times gone by then the somewhat . . . ostentatious and bewildering options available to choose from. She bit her lip when his eyes fell over the black lace and ribbon, the padding of the garment made to emphasize where her normal wraps were made to constrain for the sake of comfort and ease of movement. She had never been one to dress particularly to impress him – in any aspect of their relationship, and she had to admit that she liked the way his eyes widened so upon her now. The way they drank her in as if a man suffering of a great thirst. She had to wonder at the image she presented to him - pale but flushed, hair loose and spilling about her shoulder – both his own work and doing. Bare from the waist up save for the simple mortal garment, which she was particularly aware of as his hands at the side of her body caressed slowly, reverently. Sif could not contain her shiver as they rose to touch the sides of the lace, ever curious and seeking.

“I must thank Miss Lewis properly upon the marrow,” Loki said, the closest she would ever hear as a stammer from him.

“Jane helped too,” Sif couldn't help but let the addition fall impishly from her throat. “Initially, they wished only to show me the wonder of a sport's bra,” and here Sif's voice took on a truly loving purr – gleeful as she was to find something to replace her linen wraps with while battling, “and it ended with a bit . . . _more_ when they realized how truly oblivious I was to the finer points of under wear.”

Loki's laughter hummed against her skin when he dropped his forehead to hers, a caress that ticked. She squirmed, and he said, “Allow me to enjoy the products of such a venture without considering the hows and whys that Lady Jane is acquainted with such wear.”

“Thor has not already said?” Sif could not help but tease, eyes flashing mirthfully.

Loki choked on a breath. “Gods no, and all for the better.”

“Indeed,” Sif agreed as his hands moved. His eyes still on hers, he did not need to look down as his hands plucked deftly at the laces restraining her – the straps about her shoulders, the hooks at her back. She narrowed her eyes at the ease of his familiarity (for it had taken her an embarrassing amount of time to figure out how the contraption worked) and muttered, “Such ease you bear with such things, my lord,” and she could not help the accusation in her tone.

His eyes were very green, his smirk carved onto his lips as if from a blade. The edges bled when he said, “One becomes proficient with such things over time.”

Sif blinked. “Indeed,” she let the one word fall sharply.

“You can only imagine the atrocities that mankind has bound the female form with at times,” his words were a sultry whisper against her skin, setting it to crawl. “This is simple after some of the more . . . elaborate getup's I have suffered through throughout the centuries.”

“Such a hardship,” Sif muttered, her eyes brightening with the fight she could feel rise in her veins. Still, he looked completely calm as her ire rose, and she wondered at it. “For you and the lady in question.” The question in her voice was frank, set to cut.

And he answered her blow: “You mean me?” Ever innocent were his eyes.

Her mind processed the simple admittance somewhat stupidly.

Oh.

 _Oooh._

She opened her mouth once, twice, but found she could not speak. He took in her dawning understanding with wicked eyes, and continued to speak as he bore the straps down over her shoulders, freeing her.

“Greece in the spring was always particularly pleasant – no matter what the century,” he said, his mouth an unholy thing against her throat. “When I was amongst them, the women there used a simple strip of cloth tied over loose linen to keep their shape – they called it an _apodesme_. You would look particularly bewitching draped as one of Artemis' ladies, I cannot help but imagine . . . how you would put even the Goddess of the Hunt to shame.”

Sif took a deep breath in through the nose, and wondered why the idea of him; inky hair drawn loosely up, exposing the long sweep of his neck threatened to undo her. How him, draped in exquisite falls of breezy fabric, with his lean and stony body traded for one of curves and delicate grace . . .

Her breath caught. It shuddered as a sword from a hilt.

“And you would know of these bindings how?” she still couldn't help but push, wanting to hear the admission on his tongue. The truth in his words.

“As if Artemis would allow a man into her court,” he snorted, humoring her. “And if you recall, the spells of the huntress have saved Thor's life more than once.”

“I recall,” she whispered, her blood pulsing at the memories of him – battle brilliant, enchantments set for blood to spill and skin to render. Her skin itched for armor, for steel in that moment, but found only him. Still, she was satisfied.

And that . . . that was what she found complete in him, she knew in that moment, the feelings put to words in her mind. Thought to prose and eloquence, and how she wanted to slip all of her words off of her tongue and into his ears . . .

“You have not known torture until you have tried to slip in and out of a _busk_ though,” he was still saying, most seriously. “Truly, in Albion this once -”

“Stop talking,” she finally hissed, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck – not a little demanding as she pulled him to hers as if he were hers to claim. He bent to her, never protesting her violence so much as absorbing it and making it his own. Lip to lip, the touch was almost mean until she could feel his teeth against her skin.

He said nothing, instead pressing one hand into the wall beside her head. He was a shadow, looming, and she arched up into the black of him. She felt his smirk as her teeth nipped, and then he lifted his other hand, black lace hanging lazily from a single finger. A syllable of a spell into her mouth; the taste of seiðr's power, and then the lace disappeared with a flash of smoke and green flame.

“There was always an easier way of taking care of such things, of course,” he muttered to her narrowed eyes, ever insufferable. “And really, you have not experienced true joy until you have banished a _corset_ into the shadows.”

She rolled her eyes. “You can buy me a new one now,” she declared crossly.

“If my lady so insists,” he still deigned to mock her, until the war in her veins said _no more_ as she pushed him back.

If there was another word left to him, she swallowed them, and made them her own.


End file.
